


Picking Up The Pieces

by violasarecool



Series: What Can 8 Grey Wardens Do? [29]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Depression, Gen, Recovery, warden with ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violasarecool/pseuds/violasarecool
Summary: Everyone's heard of the hero of ferelden, and how he led armies into battle against the darkspawn. But the toughest battles are fought in your own head, and sometimes recovery just takes time (and a little help from friends).
Relationships: Anders & Surana (Dragon Age), Merrill & Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai & Warden
Series: What Can 8 Grey Wardens Do? [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/380119
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

It was late morning at the Amell mansion; after a long night staking out bandits on the road, Hawke and Jay had risen so late that Merrill was already waiting for them to start on a few morning errands. "Morning, Merrill!" Jay beamed, waving her in. "I'm afraid we haven't quite finished breakfast. Want anything? Toast, coffee?"

"I'd love some coffee, thank you," Merrill replied, her own smile equally sunny.

Hawke rolled his eyes. _Morning people._ As Jay slid Merrill a steaming cup, Hawke turned back to the note she'd been reading aloud prior to the _interruption:_ a surprise letter from Carver.

"There are more Fereldans here than I expected—the Knight-Captain, for one. (Remember him? We met briefly, outside Kirkwall, and later when he took Bethany to the Circle.) You should hear some of the stories he tells; apparently he was in the same circle as the Hero of Ferelden! Probably a good thing the Hero's not _here_ , though."

Merrill, who had just taken a swig of coffee, gave a gasping, spluttering cough, sending coffee spewing everywhere. "Jay," Hawke said, turning to give Jay an accusing look as Merrill hacked and wheezed, "that was Isabela's mug, she spiked it with the rest of that _undrinkable_ rum."

"Sorry, Merrill," Jay said, trying not to laugh at Merrill's expression of dismay. 

"Go on," Merrill wheezed, at the same time as Jay began thumping her on the back, bouncing her words like a hiccuping child.

(Hawke's mouth twitched.)

After a moment, he continued reading: "There are extreme elements within the Order, and some have ideas I hope never take root. I worry about Bethany.

"Anyway. With all the mage activity they're doubling patrols around the Gallows—and I've got the next shift, so I'll wrap this up. Say hello to Gamlen for me.

"Your brother,

Carver"

"He seems to have found his place," Jay commented, and Hawke nodded. "I'm glad."

"Figures he's more talkative now he's gone," she said. He offered the letter to Jay, who took it, scanning back over its contents.

"The Hero of Ferelden," Jay said, with a glance at Hawke and Merrill. "What's going on in the Circle that Carver thinks even the Hero couldn't handle?"

Merrill, who had managed to stop coughing for the most part, glanced away quickly. "Elgar'nan, that does sound bad... It's a very good thing he's not here, then, isn't it?" she added brightly, "what would he even be doing in Kirkwall, anyway? That'd be silly, you're so silly, Jay, the Hero, _here..._ " She stood up abruptly, hands twisting together agitatedly.

Jay gave her a baffled look. "Are you alright, Merrill?"

"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly fine—"

"I couldn't find my shirt, so I borrowed yours," Isabela called down; Hawke glanced up, Merrill momentarily forgotten as Isabela descended the stairs, Hawke's sleeveless tunic straining to fit Isabela's larger chest even with the top three buttons undone.

"Wear it like that, and you can have it," Hawke replied. Jay glanced at Isabela in amusement, and she winked at nem.

"It's a little tight, but it'll do," Isabela said, smoothing it down.

"Not all of us are as _well-endowed_ as you," Hawke said dryly, but Isabela had turned toward the door, her eyes following Merrill as she attempted to sneak out.

"Leaving already, Kitten?" Isabela called.

"I just remembered, I, um, I promised I'd talk to someone," Merrill said, edging towards the door, "about... elf... things. I'll see you later, though, bye!" she called, and she swung the door open, stepping around to close it just as quickly.

Isabela shook her head. "That girl is a terrible liar."

"She was acting strangely just before you came down, actually," Jay said, and Isabela glanced at him curiously.

"Do tell."

Jay nodded at Hawke. "I was reading Carver's letter to her," Hawke said, "and she started babbling about the Hero of Ferelden. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd met him _here,_ the way she was talking."

"Oh, _that_ ," Isabela said. She reached over Hawke's shoulder, nabbing a piece of bacon from his plate.

"Wait." Hawke turned to look at her. "You already knew? You knew the _Hero of Ferelden_ was here? In Kirkwall?"

"Yup." She took a bite of the bacon, chewing noisily. "Zevran wouldn't shut up about him. Well, him and that other Warden." She took another bite. "Maker, this is good, is there more?"

"Help yourself," Hawke said, lifting the lid off the plate in front of her.

"So he's just been hiding in Kirkwall?" Jay asked. "Whatever for?"

Isabela reached for Hawke's fork, stabbing a piece of bacon from the large plate. "I think he just needed a break, honestly. So, you know—" she shot a look at each of them in turn, "I'm trusting you not to tell anyone, here; Merrill's safe enough, but either of you could easily set half the city on him."

"Of course," Jay said, glancing at Hawke, who shrugged, "you know you can trust us."

"Mm. I just want to make sure you _completely_ understand, because I don't _really_ want to have to fight off Zevran if I don't have to, that man is like a mother bear."

"No provoking bears, got it," Hawke said, rolling his eyes.

"Good."

Hawke took a swig of his own coffee, idly watching as Isabela stole the rest of Jay's toast off nir plate. "Would have thought you'd be finding some way to profit off of it, though— _bears_ or no." Jay shot her a reproving look; Hawke just raised his eyebrows. "Am I wrong?"

Isabela snorted. "No, but listen," she said, swinging around to slap an arm on the table, "why would I mess with some kid who just wants to be left alone—"

 _Kid?_ Jay mouthed at Hawke.

"—when I can just ride the laurels of the _up and coming_ big shots right here in Kirkwall?"

"Big shots?" Hawke said incredulously.

Isabela gave her a long-suffering look. "Hawke, the way you two are going, you'll be _running_ this place in a year or two. Old blood, mansion in Hightown, all the toffs tripping over themselves to get in your good graces, not to mention the captain of the guard wrapped around your little finger—"

"Aveline's not wrapped around _anyone's_ finger," Hawke said dryly.

"True," Isabela said, "—oh, and half the undercity already owes you favours." She grinned. "Varric's been keeping track, you should see the betting pool."

"You're taking bets on us?" Jay asked with a bemused look.

"It's definitely one of the more complicated pools I'm in right now," she said, "you're so damn unpredictable."

"But not boring," Jay smiled.

"No, definitely not boring," Isabela said. "And I've won at least 3 sovereigns off your unpredictability, so by all means, keep at it."

Hawke rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

They eventually finished breakfast and headed out into the city, Marty bounding along at their heels. Fenris joined them soon after, but they didn't see Merrill again the rest of the day. As they passed through Lowtown, Hawke gave a passing glance at the narrow alley that lead down to the alienage. Perhaps Merrill was talking to the Hero of Fereldan at that very moment.

* * *

_1 year earlier:_

Quentin jerked into consciousness, eyes wide, breathing heavily. For a moment, the haze of sleep still coated his brain, and he couldn't remember where he was, couldn't place the small rough bed, plain walls and tiny crack of a window streaked with moonlight, since when had there been a window in— _oh._

Kirkwall.

He sat up slowly, trying to shake the feeling of the dream. Now that he was more awake, memories came flooding back: the dank interior of a crowded boat, refugees on all sides; Zevran talking to several strangers, negociating their way into an overpopulated city; the alienage where they finally found a place to stay.

And _alien_ was right; surrounded by elves, Quentin somehow felt even more out of place than back in Amaranthine with the Grey Wardens. They'd only been in Kirkwall a few weeks, but on those rare occasions when he summoned the energy to leave their tiny house, he found himself surrounded by someone else's family. Fox had settled in quickly, used to large cities and crowded alienages, and he was sure Zevran could get used to anything; but Quentin felt like he was intruding in a stranger's home, wearing someone else's face.

As he sat there in his bed, all sound save his own breathing muffled by the silencing sigil he had cast some nights previously, a figure hopped onto the windowsill, outlined by the bright moonlight. Quentin blinked, unsure if he was awake after all. 

The figure dropped to the floor, their long dark cloak floating down around them as they stepped into the small area around Quentin's bed, past where the silencing sigil began. "Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you," the figure murmured—Zevran.

"You didn't," Quentin said. Most likely not a dream, then. He glanced over to where he knew Fox lay on the other, larger bed.

"He is asleep," Zevran said, and Quentin could hear his smile. "Snoring, I might add." Then, Zevran stepped closer, head tipped to one side. "Are you alright?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine." Quentin wiped hastily at his face, still wet with tears. "I just... had a weird dream."

"Ah." Zevran sat on the edge of his bed. "Not good weird, I take it."

"Well..." The dream still floated over his consciousness, bright images of cheerful friends, distracting in their vividness. "Kind of, actually."

"Then why do you shed tears over happy things?" Zevran teased, and Quentin gave a hollow smile.

"Bittersweet, I guess?" He rubbed a hand over his face, eyes stinging with exhaustion. "I dreamed everyone was together again. In Ferelden."

"Ah." Quentin's eyes were growing used to the semi darkness, and he saw Zevran give him a sympathetic look. "Was there food? A dream is never complete without refreshments."

"Actually, yeah, there were cakes everywhere." He laughed softly. "Leliana threw one at me."

"How fitting," Zevran said, amusement audible in his voice. "Was I there?"

"You were playing cards with Fox, Irving, and Anders. And Nathaniel."

"Ah, you do mean _everyone,_ " Zevran said. He stretched back across Quentin's bed, arms behind his head. "Please, go on; what else happened in this dream of yours?"

Quentin shifted so he sat more comfortably upright. "Uh, Ser Pounce-a-lot stole all the cards, so you guys had to stop playing. Then suddenly we were at Redcliffe, and Oghren was standing on a table trying to fit as many eggs as he could in his mouth."

Zevran snorted. "How many did he manage?"

"I don't know, I couldn't count. Dream stuff, you know... But then we were all sitting at the table eating dinner; and Wynne was talking to Justice, and Kristoff, who was also Justice; and Sigrun and Ketkoni were trying to steal the table without anyone noticing; and—" Quentin broke off, his voice seizing up, and he covered his mouth with one hand. "It sounds... sounds so dumb like that, when I say it out loud," he whispered. "But everyone seemed so happy."

Zevran tipped his head up at him. "You miss them," he said, and Quentin nodded.

"I feel like I should have stayed, like maybe it would have gotten better and I wouldn't have had to just run away—"

"You are not running away," Zevran said firmly. "I should know, I have done plenty of running from my past." He shot Quentin a grin, and Quentin smiled reluctantly. "You need time to recover. Mental wounds must be tended to just like physical ones, and you do no one any good by further injuring yourself."

Quentin sighed. "I suppose." He glanced over at where Fox lay, his back to them. Fox hadn't spent a lot of time occupying that bed lately; like Zevran, his days and nights were filled with odd jobs to bring in coin. "While I'm sitting in here all day," Quentin murmured, guilt pricking at him.

"Hm?" Zevran glanced at him. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Quentin said. "It's late, you must be exhausted."

"Somewhat," Zevran said. He slid to his feet, face sinking into shadow as he turned. "Do not let your thoughts keep you awake too long."

"I won't," Quentin said.

Still, it was a long time before he finally fell asleep again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which quentin meets an old friend and makes a new one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for ptsd flashback; if you want to skip it, stop reading at "smacking straight into a passerby" and skip down to "are you alright?"

The next day, Zevran announced that he had discovered "something that may be of interest to you".

"Oh?" Quentin said, trying to imagine what Zevran thought would possibly interest him. _Maybe the Chantry has a library_ , he thought. He wasn't sure that was really worth leaving the alienage for, though, let alone entering a Chantry.

"One of our mutual friends is staying in the city," Zevran said.

"What?" Quentin blinked, attention now entirely on Zevran. "Who?"

"The pretty boy mage, Anders," Zevran said, grinning.

Over on the other bed, Fox raised his head. "You're one to talk, pretty boy."

"Fighting words from a man who breaks hearts while he breaks furniture."

" _Creators,_ that was one time—"

Quentin only half-listened as they continued parrying words like swords, one thought taking precedence over all others: _Anders is here._

He never had time to really get to know Anders at the circle; as a Warden, they'd barely had half a year. And it wasn't like they'd _never_ talked—out of all the new recruits at Amaranthine, the only one he had talked to _more_ than Anders was Merle. But as liaison to Orlais, Merle _had_ to talk to Quentin, and so did Anders; he was their Warden-Commander. It was pure chain of command.

Quentin swallowed, stomach twisting nerves into a pool of dread. _He wouldn't want to see me anyway._

"To return to our conversation—" Zevran was saying, "Fox, if you will refrain from showering me with compliments for one moment, a man can only take so much before his ego will burst—there is an entrance down to Darktown just outside of the alienage. I can take you there, though not for a few days," he said apologetically, "our current target has been elusive at best, and our client is becoming impatient."

"Speaking of which..." Fox said, finally sitting up.

"Yes, yes," Zevran said, "we must be on our way. Reconnaissance, you know."

"Target?" Quentin said, looking at Zevran with a frown. They had all done their sharing of killing—a thought that plagued Quentin almost as often as the accompanying nightmares—but they had mutually agreed to avoid unnecessary bloodshed now that the larger darkspawn crisis was over. At least, he had thought it was mutual at the time. The more he thought about it, the more certain he felt the other two were just humouring him.

"He is not a good man," Zevran said, sliding his two full-sized daggers into their sheathes, "although by all accounts, neither is our client." He shrugged. "Until tonight, then, or perhaps later if we are unlucky."

"Bye," Quentin said—but they were already gone.

* * *

_"I'm thinking of stepping down as Warden-Commander."_

_"What?" Merle's eyes are wide, bizarrely surprised. "Why? You're a good Commander, we couldn't have done half of what we did without you."_

_Quentin shrugs helplessly. "Most of what we've done here hasn't been because I'm an amazing Commander, it's because we have a hard-working group of Wardens."_

_"Who you lead," Merle says flatly._

_"No, Merle." They have to understand. "I've been... I haven't been able to do much,_ _anything,_ _for weeks. It's not just the breakdowns, it's the constant exhaustion, constant...."_ nothing. _"I can't fight, can't talk, can't—" His voice catches, heart pounding, as Merle stares. Can't talk. Can't... okay, breathe. 1... 2... 3... Okay._

_"Quentin?"_

_A moment passes. He tries again. "If... if I was the only one who could be Warden-Commander, maybe, maybe I'd stay longer. I don't know. But," he gestures at Merle helplessly, "they've got you: resourceful, capable. A better leader than I could ever be."_

_"That's not—"_

_"I became Warden-Commander by killing a few darkspawn; because... because_ Alistair _didn't want it_ _. You'll be Warden-Commander because you're_ good _at it."_

* * *

Afternoons passed slowly in that little house.

Sunlight filtered in through the window, shutters left open in clear hopes of tempting Quentin outside. Voices crashed against each other, greetings from neighbour to neighbour, updates on the health of daughters and uncles and grandparents. Other people's lives drifted in through that open window; Quentin counted the dust particles floating below it.

The chantry bells woke him some time that afternoon, bleary-eyes squinting against the light and noise of chimes that said it was at least 2 in the afternoon. He staggered to his feet, certain he was forgetting something, somewhere he was supposed to be—Cerberus leapt off the bed with a bark, immediately ready to go—"where?" Quentin rasped, throat dry and cracked, "where are we going?" Cerberus pawed open the door, nudging Quentin forward, and suddenly he was standing out in the bright sunlit courtyard, sound crushing him from every direction.

He blinked, eyes watering, head pounding, throbbing with the sheer volume of noise; the squeal of chalk on slate; dull thuds of heavy boxes hitting the ground; clinks and taps and thumps and above it all the endless chatter of a thousand voices—he swayed unsteadily, and Cerberus was beside him, body pressed against his side. Quentin's hand went instinctively to Cerberus's back—"I'm ok," he murmured, patting Cerberus a little haphazardly, "I'm ok."

He'd just keep saying it until it became true.

He took a few uncertain steps forward, the ground a little steadier now beneath his feet. It must have been later in the day than he thought; there were still plenty of people on the streets, but there wasn't much of a crowd, little resistance for one lone elf struggling to walk across the open space. In fact, he'd almost begun to tune out the voices around him when one rose above the cacophony, and he felt Cerberus turn, the mabari's body brushing against his legs to face the owner of the voice.

A young elf with black hair was looking at him, light vallaslin curling around her eyes and across her cheeks. Her mouth was moving, but it took considerable effort for his sluggish brain to turn the sounds into words. "I don't think we've met," she was saying, and Quentin stared at her blankly, desperately waiting for some kind of lifeline. "I'm Merrill," she added.

"Uh," he said, brain wading through a miasma of half-completed thoughts for the right answer; what came out was more question than response. "Quentin?"

Against all reason, Merrill's response was to beam at him like he'd just given her a bouquet of roses. "Nice to meet you, Quentin!" she exclaimed. While Quentin was trying to decide if that warranted a response or not, she was already turning her attention to Cerberus, whose tiny stump of a tail was wagging so hard his entire body shook. Somehow, Merrill's smile grew even brighter. "Aww, your mabari is _gorgeous._ May I pet him?"

"Um. Sure?" Quentin managed. Merrill crouched down, and Cerberus immediately trotted over, sniffing her all over. Quentin balled his hands up in his pockets, and focused on breathing.

"Have you been here long?" Merrill asked, as she scratched an irritatingly happy Cerberus behind the ear.

"Not very..." Quentin said between slow breaths, mind already a little clearer. _In... 2.... 3.... Out... 2... 3..._ "We got here a week ago."

"Really?" Merrill exclaimed. "It's odd that I haven't seen you yet then, I'm not gone very often."

Quentin shrugged awkwardly. Zevran had taken extra care to avoid notice since they left Amaranthine, so he wasn't surprised. It was easy to become used to the 'no questions asked' attitude of the Grey Wardens, but for the rest of the world, an ex-crow and two rogue Wardens had to be careful. Not to mention... "I haven't been out much."

"Me neither. Sometimes I go places with Hawke or Jay, but mostly I'm just at home on my own. You should come say hi sometimes, then we'd both have someone to talk to! If you want to, that is," she added hastily, "you don't have to. But you can, if you want."

She spoke so quickly, the silence after caught Quentin by surprise. "Oh," he said, his brain furiously processing her words, "thanks?" _Then we'd both have someone to talk to,_ his brain said, as Merrill gave him a bright look. _We._

Then, Merrill was speaking again. "Oh, look at me, babbling away again, you probably have things to do, don't you? I'll let you get on with it, don't mind me." She gave Cerberus one final pat, then stood up. "It was very nice to meet you. See you later, then!"

"Bye," Quentin said automatically. As Merrill walked away, he realized he had just agreed to visit a complete stranger. But even as his heart began to race at the thought, his feet were lighter, the lead in his limbs a little less. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe it was that momentary optimism that lead to him climbing down into the tunnel to Darktown.

He knew how to get to the undercity; even isolated in their little house, Quentin was well-enough positioned to watch Fox and Zevran drop down through the grate into the darkness below on those occasions when neither Hightown nor Lowtown suited their purposes. They never talked about it for long, but as Quentin walked the long, half-lit tunnel toward the main entrance, he thought, _how big can a few underground tunnels be?_ Then, the tunnel finally opened up onto a crash of bodies, light, and noise that sent his thoughts scattering.

So this was Darktown: towering walls of dirt and wood planking that came down around flurries of elves, humans, and dwarves, an ebb and flow of movement that buffeted Quentin forward as soon as he stepped out. Before Quentin had time to panic, Cerberus's jaw was closing around Quentin's sleeve, and he dragged Quentin forward and out through the entry toward the other end of the room. There, the room opened up, and the flow of movement slowed somewhat, giving them a little breathing room. Quentin stopped to lean gratefully against a nearby wall, trying to get his bearings.

He had no idea where he was going.

He walked toward a nearby tunnel, eyeing it cautiously as he attempted to quell his rising panic. He turned toward another. The dirt walls were almost identical—no indication of where to go, not even distinctive marks scratched into them like he'd seen in Lowtown. When an elf pushed impatiently past him into one of the tunnels, Quentin seized onto the movement like a lifeline, and followed them.

They came out into a dully lit tunnel, maybe twice the size of the one they had just come from. Elves sat or lay along the walls, rags and sleeping rolls scattered along its length. A man sat beside a child, her tiny body curled beside him. She coughed loudly, and he stroked the side of her face, watching her with concern.

"Have you taken her to the healer?" a woman asked the man, and Quentin's head jerked up. _The healer._

"Yes, but that was 3 days ago now," the man said, glancing at Quentin as he stood there.

The woman was also staring at him, her expression decidedly more guarded. "What are you looking at?" she demanded.

"Sorry," Quentin said, shrinking back, "I just, you said healer? I... I'm looking for a mage healer."

"Are you now." She gave him a distrustful look through narrowed eyes, then down at Cerberus, standing attentively by Quentin's side.

Quentin abruptly remembered something Zevran said about Kirkwall being a 'very Templar city'. "Oh, _no_ ," he said, holding out a hand, "no, he's my friend. I'm a mage too." He concentrated on his hand, magic coming to him in a sluggish trickle; after a moment, a small flame blossomed in his palm, and the woman's face softened as the light lit her face for just a moment before it flickered out.

"So you are." She and the man exchanged a long look, before the man shrugged, and leaned down over his daughter.

"You can come with me," the man said to Quentin, as he gently lifted the child into his arms.

Quentin nodded, relief flooding his veins with a rush of cold that made the room spin, and he reached out to steady himself against the wall. "Thank you."

The walk there was long and twisting, with so many turns he knew he could never have found it on his own. _Why would you think you could do this,_ his brain whispered, and he shushed it impatiently, trying not to lose the man and his daughter as he followed them through the crowded tunnels, glancing down every few steps to make sure Cerberus was still with him.

Eventually, they passed down and up a staircase that opened into a wide entrance, two large doors ahead. The man pushed inside, and Quentin followed cautiously, heart thudding in his chest.

The clinic's interior was small, cramped, dirt floors and crumbling walls like the rest of darktown; nothing that ressembled a place of healing. Patients stood lined across the room or seated on the floor between crates and pillars. A blue glow lit the far end of the room; Quentin craned his neck, ducked around to the side to see Anders standing there, arms raised, his gaunt face lit by the glow of healing magic. After a moment, the child on the table below him began to move, and the Anders slumped, glow fading. His head raised a fraction, eyes following the line of people waiting to be healed—and froze as he came to Quentin.

 _Uh. Hey..._ Quentin raised a hand in an uncertain wave, attempting a smile. Anders stared at him a moment longer, then turned to the woman to say something under his breath. His expression was hard to read, but he was certainly not smiling.

Quentin pulled his arms close, folded them uncomfortably across his chest, and waited.

A moment passed, then another, and Anders was pacing toward him, shoulders up, jaw clenched. He stopped a few feet away and looked Quentin up and down. _No uniform,_ Quentin realized, remembering his dirty, overlarge shirt, torn pants and bare ankles. _And no staff._

"Have you come to take me back?" Anders said quietly.

"What?" Quentin stared, mouth falling open. "No, why would I... no!"

Anders made a huffing sound, mouth twisted in a bitter half-smile. "Why else would you have followed me all the way across the Waking Sea?"

"I didn't," Quentin protested. "I had no idea you were here until yesterday."

"Alright," Anders said, crossing his arms, brows still dangerously low on a face that had seen mostly smiles in the time Quentin had known him. "So what are you doing here?"

"Uh," Quentin paused, "in Kirkwall, or _here?"_

"Either, I suppose."

"I'm in Kirkwall because," Quentin swallowed, "well, I, uh, couldn't handle being Warden-Commander any longer," he said, and Anders's gaze sharpened. "And I'm in Darktown because I was kind of hoping to see a familiar face."

"You left the Grey Wardens?" Anders asked quietly, eyes trained on Quentin in an almost hopeful look.

"Yeah, I just..." Quentin ran a hand through tufts of his messy hair, trying to hide his trembling hands. "Yeah."

Anders glanced around him at the many people still waiting to be healed. "Listen, let me finish up here, and then we can talk in private."

"Ok."

* * *

"We must have left about the same time, then," Anders said. He leaned back in his chair, watching Quentin from across the table in the small backroom of Anders' clinic.

"More or less," Quentin agreed. "I think I remember Merle saying you'd been gone a few days when I left, actually. I thought they meant you were on an extended patrol..." Quentin grimaced, reached down to smooth back Cerberus's fur in quick, agitated motions. He should have noticed, should have realized what that meant. If he was a better commander, maybe he would have.

"No, I was already on a ship this way," Anders said. "But if you didn't notice, maybe no one else did, and I'll be safe here."

Quentin gave a quiet huff of a laugh. "I doubt Merle would send someone after you, anyway, but I don't think I'm a good example of what someone might have noticed. I haven't... haven't exactly been. Uh." He bit the inside of his cheek, face scrunched in a grimace.

Anders shot him a wry smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it had gotten so bad."

"Yeah." Quentin sighed. "I don't think I was meant for this, any of this. It's just not the life for me."

Anders gave a quiet laugh. "You and me both. If I never see the deep roads again, it'll be too soon."

"I wouldn't mind that either," Quentin agreed.

They sat quietly for a moment, Cerberus's head in Quentin's lap, his hand tracing gentle circles through fur. "Did you come alone?" Anders asked. "Other than your dog, I mean," he said, glancing at Cerberus with a smile.

"To Kirkwall? No, Fox and Zevran came too."

"Well we _are_ just the group of Warden renegades, aren't we," Anders said dryly. "Next thing you know, we'll have half the Wardens in Ferelden living in this mess of a city."

Quentin made an amused noise. "'It'd definitely be _interesting_ ; Sigrun, Dwinna, _Justice_ especially."

"Hah..." Anders rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. "Though, obviously Justice couldn't _actually_ come here since he, uh, disappeared—"

He was interrupted by a strange pattern of taps on the door outside; Anders' head shot up, brows lowering over a look of concern. "That's... stay here," he said grimly, and he grabbed his staff before he slipped out the door. It slammed closed behind him.

Quentin stared at the door, ears straining for any sound, any sign of what was happening outside the little room. Then, there was a low hum of magical energy, and a booming voice broke the silence, a voice so familiar: " _Why have you disturbed my place of refuge_?"

"Justice?" Quentin murmured.

* * *

_"What if you found a living body to possess?" Nathaniel's question comes out of nowhere; Anders and Quentin exchange a curious look._

_"Even if I knew how, I would not possess the living. Such is an act for demons."_

_"What if the person were willing?"_

_The question seems to catch Justice off guard. "Why would a mortal ever allow such a thing?" he asks, and Quentin wonders the same thing._

_"For life. For love. Perhaps together, you can do what they cannot do alone. If you gave instead of taking, I would consider you no demon."_

_Quentin glances at Anders, expecting him to interrupt, to object. Instead, he just looks pensive._

_"It is... something to consider," Justice says. "Thank you, Nathaniel."_

* * *

The door scraped open, and Quentin raised his head as Anders slipped back into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. "I've got to go," Anders said, striding across the room to snatch up a leather bag. "I said I'd meet them there, need to make sure everyone's gone in case... if they send someone..."

"Was that Justice?" Quentin asked quietly.

Anders stopped, hands twisted around the strap of his bag. "It's... it's a long story," he said, eyes flickering downward.

"Ok," Quentin said. _You can tell me,_ he wanted to say, to reassure him somehow. But after knowing him so short a time, he wasn't sure how Anders would react.

They walked through the emptying clinic, weaving around tables and upturned crates before emerging through one of the large doors back into the noise and bustle of darktown.

"I guess I'll see you around?" Anders said.

"Oh..." Quentin stared at the unfamiliar hall ahead of them, stared blankly, helplessly. He hadn't even considered how he would find his way back. He had no idea, no recollection of even the dirty wall just yards from the clinic, of the bustling square full of strangers. Nearby, a little girl ran through the crowd with a delighted shriek that threatened to split Quentin's head, and he took a hasty step back, smacking straight into a passerby—

_He slammed against the floor, blood dripping down his brow and into his eyes. He could just make out the figures at the far end of the room, two immense masses of contorted flesh converging on a fallen mage—Selena? Rose? There was so much blood, he could hardly see. One of the demons drew back a gnarled claw, and the mage gave a piercing, terrified scream._

_"Quentin, the litany!" Alistair yelled, and Quentin heaved himself onto one knee, averting his eyes from the piles of mage and Templar corpses littering the floor, desperately hoping not to see another face he knew. He fumbled for the scroll, mouth already forming the first words, Blessed Andraste, help those—someone_ please _help them—_

"Quentin!"

There was pressure on his side, a warm solid mass, and as he gasped for breath, it pressed against him, holding him steady. _Cerberus,_ some small disconnected part of him noted. His lungs gradually began to seize on the idea of breathing again, and the world began to resurface in a blurry mass of spinning colour. Something warm and wet brushed his hand; Cerberus's face solidified in front of him, tongue licking feeling into his skin.

"Quentin?" Anders was crouched in front of him, face crumpled with worry. "Maker's breath," he swore, hands reaching forward as if to steady him, then pulling back as Cerberus gave a low warning growl. "Alright, alright!"

For a long moment, it was all Quentin could do to take in breath after shuddering breath, heart slamming into his chest, pounding in his ears and throat and lungs. Agonizingly slowly, it began to ease; sound trickled back into his consciousness, and he coughed weakly, throat tight against the cold air that seared his chest. "Sorry," he finally managed, fingers flexing against his trembling legs.

"Are you alright?" Anders said, almost immediately, "are you hurt—" Cerberus gave another warning growl as Anders got too close. "For Andraste's sake, let me see him, you stupid dog, I can help!"

Quentin heaved himself further upright with a grunt, put a reassuring hand on Cerberus's back. "m fine," he said, patting Cerberus's back until he sat back with a huff. "I'm not hurt," he added, as Anders knelt beside him, hands already beginning to glow.

"You're sure?" Anders said, one hand extended, moving across his body; checking for injuries, Quentin supposed. Unlike Wynne and Petra, Quentin had never spent much time on healing magic.

"Yeah. I just... need a moment." He rubbed a hand over his mouth, breathed in, out. "Sorry," he said again. "You... the person at the clinic..."

"It's fine," Anders said, finally lowering his hand. "They can wait." He was still glowing slightly, so pale as to be hardly noticeable. It could have been the shock still wearing off, but Quentin felt almost warm as they sat there, like he'd drank a mug of beer, or a bowl full of soup.

Once Quentin felt strong enough to stand, Anders helped him to his feet, and they made their way back through Darktown, Cerberus keeping so close that Quentin almost tripped over him several times. Anders left him outside the alienage after Quentin insisted with increasing embarrassment that he would be fine.

The house was still dark and empty. Quentin collapsed on his bed, half disappointed, half relieved to find himself alone with the fog in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin finds that he and Merrill have more in common than he thought. Maybe he can find a place here after all.

Weeks passed, then months. Quentin found himself spending increasing time outside in the depths of Kirkwall, between visiting Anders in Darktown (accompanied by Anders himself, who insisted on guiding him through the tunnel maze after the first day's mishap) and the admittedly minute trip across the alienage to Merrill's house. Anders was often busy tending to Darktown's sick and wounded, but Merrill seemed to have almost as much free time as he did. If he didn't come find her by the afternoon, she'd soon turn up on his doorstep with a sunny smile and a new story about a cat or an oddly-shaped trinket in the marketplace.

She brought a kind of infectious cheer with her that brightened the room and painted even the dull walls of the little house a brighter shade of grey. She brought a bright smile and unshakeable enthusiasm no matter the hour. And she brought a staff: elegantly carved wood, with twists of bark that spiraled down its length, gnarled vine-like protrusions curling at the top.

"Merrill," Quentin said, staring at her with dawning recognition, "are—are you a mage?"

Merrill followed his gaze to her staff. "Oh, yes, do you like it? Sarai—my old clan's craftsman—carved it for me. I love the little vines, I always feel like I'm carrying a piece of the forest with me."

"You're not... worried?" he asked hesitantly.

Merrill gave him a wide-eyed, curious look. "About what?"

"Templars?" He gestured at her staff. "It's very... obviously magic."

"I suppose," Merrill shrugged. "But I haven't really had many problems—well, a few _,_ but we got rid of them." Quentin opened his mouth, frowned, then closed it. "You can't always be worrying about things you can't control," she said firmly.

Though, using magic was something you _could_ control, Quentin thought. The _using_ part, at least.

"Besides," Merrill exclaimed, "I thought you knew Anders? That man doesn't know how to be subtle to save his life!"

"His staff looks like a pike," Quentin protested.

Merrill gave him a look. "A pike that makes him all blue and glowy?"

"Um. Yeah," Quentin acknowledged. "It's just..." The words caught in his throat, fear choking him like a physical presence. "—a little daunting," he managed.

"Daunting? Whatever do you mean?" Merrill stared at him for a moment, face screwed up in confusion. Then, her face cleared. "Oh!" she breathed, "creators, I am such a dunce. You're a mage too, aren't you?" Quentin nodded mutely. " _That's_ why you brought it up! I am so sorry, you must think I'm so silly, prattling on about _subtlety,_ of all things."

Quentin gave a weak smile, heart still beating a heavy rhythm in his throat.

"Oh, but that's _wonderful!_ You can never have enough mage friends, you know, whenever I try and talk to Isabela about magic things she tends to wander off. And Anders doesn't like me very much." Quentin opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. Then, Merrill brightened. "But you're a mage! We can talk about all kinds of things. What kinds of magic do you use? I'm very fond of nature magic myself." She came to a sudden stop, shooting him an expectant smile.

Quentin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden silence. "I, uh. Um." He scrabbled for words, combing through his scattered thoughts for the appropriate reply; Merrill waited patiently, hands clasped on her knees. "I never—never really, took the time, to get very far with nature magic," he finally said. "It's so... complex." _Also I was busy learning fire magic. And ice. And entropy. And runes, and enchantment theory, and—_

"Really?" Merrill exclaimed, her voice snapping him back into focus, "Creators, I just _love_ nature magic, it's in my blood, really. Though, I guess it's in yours too? Not that it means you have to do it," she said quickly, "I'm the _last_ person who'd be saying something like that, I mean, look at me, in a human city! Sort of, alienage in a city, I'm sorry," she said all in one breath, "I'm rambling, don't mind me."

"I don't mind," Quentin said honestly. "I don't know about it being in my blood, though. The only nature magic I ever saw was from Velanna and Merle—"

Merrill made a squeaky noise of surprise. Quentin glanced at her, and she coughed. "Um. Sorry. Merle?"

"Yeah?" Quentin gave her a curious look.

"No, I'm sorry, go on, it's probably not... no, it couldn't be." She bit her lip, frowning at the table as if it had just said a rude word. Quentin covered his smile with one hand. "It's just that I had a clanmate named Merle who left us a long time ago, though they were off in Orlais last I heard, but that was ages ago, maybe they've moved on since then, oh, I don't know, I'm babbling again," she gave a sheepish grin. "Was it Mahariel?"

"Yes," Quentin said, grin broadening, and he lowered his hand, "Merle Mahariel," he said, and now he stared at Merrill, eyes tracing her face. "Are you related? I don't, uh, is everyone in a clan related? Merle said Kit's their cousin, but—"

"Kit made it?" Merrill clapped her hands against the side of her face, eyes wide with joy. "Oh, thank the Creators."

"Made it?" Quentin asked, frowning.

"She did make it, right? You said she _is_ their cousin, not _was,_ so she's alive? Oh, please say she's alive—"

"Yeah, she's alive," Quentin said, not without a twinge of guilt that _this was a question she had to ask—_ "you didn't know?"

"We haven't heard from them since Merle took her to the Wardens. I mean, they couldn't have known where to find us, where to send a letter, we left right after they did. Away from the Blight," she added, "that was what got Kit. We didn't know if she'd survive, even if they reached the Wardens in time."

"I didn't know," Quentin said. He paused, eyes unfocused as he tried to remember what Kit had said, if they'd ever said how they joined. "I only met them last year."

"Oh, I see. Are you a Warden then?"

Quentin glanced away, hands coming up to hug his sides. "I was. But Kit and Merle," he added, hastily steering the subject back to safer waters, "you should know, they're doing fine. Great, really, Merle's Warden-Commander now, and Kit's a good Warden—when they're not. Well." He laughed nervously. "Stringing _pillows_ from the ceiling."

Merrill gave out a loud, high-pitched snort of laughter. "Kit! That _does_ sound like them. And Merle, a Commander; it sounds so official!" She beamed at Quentin. "Oh, I'm so proud of them. Thank you for telling me, I never thought I'd hear from them, or, well, about them."

Quentin nodded, a little guiltily. It was difficult to forget the costs of being a Grey Warden, but being separated from your family was a high price to pay even to keep Thedas safe. "You could always write to them," he suggested weakly, the words ringing hollow in his ears even as he said them. "They're in Amaranthine, in Vigil's Keep, you could send a letter now."

Merrill's face lit up. "By Andruil, I could, couldn't I? And we're staying, I mean, _I'm_ staying in one place now, in Kirkwall, they could write back! Where did you say they were?" She stood up, casting her eyes about the room, "if I could just find something to write with—"

Quentin watched as she strode across the room, the guilt in his chest easing only a little. Kit may have survived the Joining, but from what he'd heard from Duncan, and later, Fox, she would be lucky to live another 30 years before her Calling. And Merrill would be there for none of it. _I'm sorry, Merrill,_ he thought, instinctively reaching for Cerberus. _I wish I could give you more than letters._

After a moment of rummaging around Merrill emerged with a sheet of parchment and a small chunky pencil. "Do you like it?" she asked, waving it at him. "Varric found one for me the other day when I was complaining about getting ink on my clothes. It's ever so convenient." Quentin nodded. "Now what was the name of that place, again?"

"Amaranthine," Quentin said, waiting as she wrote it down. "That's the city. We—the Wardens, are in the keep. Vigil's Keep."

"Vigil's... Keep," Merrill repeated, nose scrunched up as she scratched the letters down. "Oh, that's brilliant, thank you," she said, beaming, "I can't wait to hear from them, it's been so long! Well not _that_ long, but a few years can be a long time—"

They were interrupted by a loud banging on the door. Merrill stopped, turned her head. "Oh! I um. Do you mind terribly if I get that?" Quentin shook his head, and she bounced to her feet. "Sorry, I'll be just be a moment," she said, and Quentin leaned back in his chair, smiling as Merrill half-ran to the door. She tugged the door open, light pouring in so brightly it was hard to see outside. "Oh, hello Hawke, hello Jay! What can I do for you? Has something bad happened? There always seems to be something going wrong, doesn't there?"

As Quentin's eyes adjusted to the light, he made out two figures standing outside, tall and heavy-set—humans. "We're going to see the Qunari before we head out," the taller of the two said. "Isabela had other engagements, so it's just us and Aveline."

"Oh, alright," Merrill said. "Just give me a moment, I'll be right back." She ran back inside, skidding to a stop by the table. "Quentin, I'm so sorry, but I need to go, I completely forgot we were going out today or I would have said so, honest—"

"It's fine," Quentin said, pushing down the instinctive thoughts that came with that _(_ _she's just trying to get rid of you, she didn't really want you here),_ "don't worry about it."

"Sorry," Merrill repeated as she shouldered her staff, "we can do this again later, if you like, maybe tomorrow? Wait, not tomorrow. Later, though, promise!"

"Later," Quentin agreed.

As he made his way to the door, Cerberus trotting behind him, Merrill ran back toward her bedroom, muttering something about potions. The front door was still open, and the shorter of the two humans glanced at Quentin as he approached the door, thick eyebrows low over a disinterested expression that was almost familiar. They were about his own height, actually, but there was something about their stance that felt much more threatening than their taller companion.

"Excuse me," Quentin said, arms hugging his sides as he stepped outside, keeping as much distance between him and the strange humans as possible.

The taller bearded one smiled at him. "Afternoon." Quentin bared his teeth in more of a grimace than a smile for a brief second before dropping his gaze and hurrying away.

He could have sworn he heard laughter.

He forced himself not to run as he made his way back to his house, but as soon as he reached it he yanked open the door and swung inside, barely leaving the door open long enough to let Cerberus in.

"Quentin?" came Zevran's voice, thick with sleep.

Quentin turned slowly to find the bed at the far end of the room already occupied, Zevran blinking at him through lidded eyes. "Sorry," he murmured, "I didn't realize you were back." As he stood by the door, Cerberus trotted over to Zevran to sniff at him.

"We finished early," Zevran said, holding out a hand to Cerberus, which the mabari dutifully licked. "Yes, thank you for your saliva." He idly patted Cerberus's head, and Cerberus walked off with a huff, settling himself at the foot of Quentin's bed. "Before I fall asleep again mid sentence," Zevran said, stifling a yawn, "I should tell you, Isabela has invited us for drinks this evening. Or should I say, we have invited her?" He gave a sleepy shrug, "invitations have been made, and someone will be paying for someone's drinks, most likely Fox, since he—" Zevran cut himself off with a wide yawn, "...is, a terrible card-player."

Quentin snorted. "So you've said."

"Well, this is your chance to find out for yourself," Zevran said, jabbing a finger in his general direction. "Come with us, it will be good fun." He stretched his arms forward, his entire body stiffening in an almost catlike stretch that had Fox shifting beside him.

Quentin gave a quiet sigh, watching as Zevran subsided into low murmurs, one arm draped over Fox's slumbering form. "Maybe," he said. He turned back to the rest of the room, and Cerberus's ears perked up as he walked over, resting a hand on his broad snout. "I guess we could give it a try, huh boy?" he murmured, and Cerberus nosed up into his hand with a quiet whine. "At least _you'll_ be happy for more attention."

* * *

The tavern was smaller than Quentin had expected, tables crammed into the filthy space to accommodate more people in one room than the cramped ship that had brought them to Amaranthine. "Busy night," Fox commented; Zevran shrugged.

"Clearly the Hanged Man is a popular place—for those who do not make their living from the shadows," he added with a grin.

Fox rolled his eyes. "We do nighttime grunt work. Don't be so melodramatic."

"Melodramatic? I am but a humble assassin, hiding in plain view from several interested parties." He shot Quentin a quick grin. "But you are correct, of course, why should we be dramatic about it?"

Fox looked like he was struggling not to smile.

Zevran led them to a table occupied by two people: a human with long dark hair and the biggest necklace Quentin had ever seen; and a dirty-blonde dwarf who gave them a sweeping glance as they approached. "Friends of yours?" the dwarf muttered.

The human glanced up, face brightening. "Gods, Zevran, you sure know how to make a woman wait."

"This is when we agreed to meet, no?" Zevran pulled out a chair across from her, and Fox and Quentin followed suit.

" _I_ said as soon as you could get here," she said, giving him an unimpressed look.

Zevran shrugged. "And this is as soon as we could."

There was a low cough, and they all turned. "So, I suddenly know no one at this table," the dwarf said. "Is this a business thing, should I get going?"

"It most certainly is not business," Zevran said. "Please, stay; any friend of Isabela's is a friend of mine."

"Yeah, stay a bit," Isabela said, "it's not like you have anywhere _else_ to be, Varric."

Varric made a noise of mock hurt. "I'll have you know I have a meeting with the Merchant's Guild I've been putting off for 3 days now."

"Didn't you spend yesterday afternoon playing Wicked Grace with Fenris and Donnic?" Isabela shot.

"And I'll do it again if it keeps me away from the Guild," Varric agreed, and Isabela laughed.

"Alright," she said, shaking her head, "let's just, do introductions quick before I get any drunker. I'm Isabela, this ass is Varric," she said, gesturing at the dwarf. "That's Zevran, he killed my husband a while back and left _me_ to deal with the mess—"

"And the ship," Zevran said, eyebrows raised.

Isabela made a weighing motion. "The ship was pretty nice, I guess. Fox is alright," she said, nodding at him, "though he _did_ nearly get me killed by a bunch of Tevinter slavers."

Fox shrugged.

"That sounds familiar," Varric said.

"Shush, you, we're not talking about Hawke right now." She turned to Quentin. "And we haven't met yet, but you must be Quentin, Zevran talks about you a lot."

This seemed to be his cue to speak. "Oh," he managed.

" _Mostly_ good things," she said with a wink.

"Play nice, Isabela," Zevran said, amused.

"I _am_ being nice," Isabela protested.

Quentin reached down for Cerberus's head; Cerberus gently nosed his hand.

"Hey, kid," Varric said quietly, as Isabela and Zevran carried on, "think we missed someone in introductions." He nodded at Cerberus, whose eyes followed Varric's movement, ears forward. "What's your dog's name?"

Quentin glanced up at Varric, then back down. "Cerberus," he said.

"Cerberus," Varric repeated, "bit of a classical name, that. You a big reader?" Quentin nodded. "What kind of stuff do you like?"

"Legends," Quentin said, "folk-stories; I've read all the Dalish stories in the library—" Here, he faltered. _In the Circle library._ It seemed like years and years ago when he first sat at that pock-marked table, wondering where he belonged. Maybe _belonging_ was too much to ask of a place. "—a lot of times," he finished awkwardly.

Varric made an encouraging noise. "Sure. There's a reason stories like that just keep coming around. They're catchy, attention-grabbing buggers. Though some of them can get a little too... _grandiose_ for my tastes."

"I'm sorry," Isabela suddenly said, leaning over toward Varric, "what were you _bullshitting?_ Did you just say _too grandiose,_ Varric 'and then a massive dragon ate him' Tethras?"

"Ahah! So you _have_ been reading my books," Varric said triumphantly.

" _Your_ books?" Quentin said, as Isabela rolled her eyes.

"Only the latest one," Isabela said.

"You _skipped the first two in the series?"_ Varric demanded, with an air of injury that seemed almost theatrically exaggerated. "Have you no _shame?"_

"Mm, no, think I lost that somewhere in Nevarra," Isabela said, sharing a languid grin with Zevran.

"Hah hah," Varric said. He turned back to Quentin. "Yes, I've been known to write on occasion, to the chagrin of everyone I've used as—Daisy?"

"As _what?"_ Fox said, as Varric raised a hand, staring at something behind them.

"Hey, Daisy!" he called, "over here!" Quentin swiveled in his seat in time to see a dark-haired elven figure push through the crowds toward them.

 _Oh._ "Merrill," Quentin said, and she glanced down at him, mouth widening in a grin when she saw him.

"Quentin!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you're here."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Varric said (though not without a hint of humour). "I take it you two have met?"

"Oh, yes," Merrill said, turning to Varric, "Quentin was just at my house this morning, before Hawke and Jay stopped by and I had to leave rather rudely. I'm so sorry about that," she added to Quentin, "they just come by so suddenly sometimes, I never know when they'll need me next." She gestured behind her; near the tavern entrance, Quentin spotted the two humans from earlier, and Anders, talking to the taller one with wild gestures and grin lines that almost disguised the dark bags under his eyes. Quentin smothered a smile.

"It's fine," Quentin assured her.

"You can say no, you know," Isabela said, kicking out the chair across from her; Merrill sat down next to Quentin, already shaking her head.

"Oh, no, I'd hate to leave them without help! What if something happened? What if they got hurt?"

"They can take care of themselves, Daisy," Varric said.

But that wasn't really the point, was it? Quentin thought, as Merrill chattered on about the ridiculous things they'd gotten up to that day, Fox and Varric's exclamations ringing out among peals of laughter. It was about being there for friends so they didn't have to do it alone.

And as the evening wore down, and their little group spread across neighbouring tables, Anders and Jay settling in beside Varric, and Hawke, and a dark-skinned elf, and a woman in guard uniform who dragged over a third table like it was a sack of feathers—it was chaotic, and loud, and the chatter crashed over Quentin like waves threatening to drag him under. If he closed his eyes, the wall of noise could be mistaken for the clamour of Vigil's keep, echoing orders for weapons and lost patrols.

But Zevran sat beside him, one comforting arm draped across the back of Quentin's chair; and every few minutes Merrill would turn to him with some kind of tangent; and if Anders made some kind of joke too quick for him to catch, the bright look he shot Quentin afterward still had him grinning. A fire crackled at his back, and Cerberus lounged by his feet.

He kept his eyes open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! if you've been following from the beginning, this is the end of the wc8gwd series! (if you're reading archivally, there's still one fic after this)
> 
> ive spent so long writing these wardens and all their friends i can't believe this series is finally finished. though if you're interested in the characters, i've still got a couple non-canon ficlets to finish up, so watch out for those later


End file.
